


Nelson and Murdock v. New Year's Eve

by enkiduu



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Fireworks, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 12:18:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19209289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enkiduu/pseuds/enkiduu
Summary: It occurs to Foggy that Matt must hate New Year's Eve, with all the fireworks and shit.It also occurs to him that Matt might not want to see him, but that doesn't mean Matt doesn't need him (or that Foggy doesn't need him back).





	Nelson and Murdock v. New Year's Eve

Matt opens the door before Foggy even knocks. He’s standing in the Daredevil suit, hand clenched around the mask. 

Foggy suspects it’s because Matt’s afraid Foggy _won’t_ knock and will just turn around and leave instead. Well, that’s not happening. 

Not on Foggy’s part, anyway. 

“Happy New Year, Matt,” he says, like he does every year, like things haven't been tense recently because Matt’s been pushing him and Karen away and Foggy’s been _letting_ him. 

Matt looks a little stunned that Foggy is actually here. Not annoyed, no (that’s a relief), but confused. It hurts to see. “Happy New Year, Foggy.” 

There's an awkward silence. 

This is unacceptable. Foggy decides to just walk in, since Matt seems to have forgotten to invite him in. If he's here, he might as well get himself comfortable on the couch. The one Matt didn't bleed out on. 

“You heading somewhere?” Foggy asks. “Out to celebrate?” 

“You know where I'm going,” Matt says, tone dark and resigned. Condemned, like he’s talking about going to Hell. “If I don’t do it, who will?” 

“The police. They get paid to do it. It’s called their job,” Foggy reminds. “You know how much Brett complains about it every year. I’ll have to pacify him with muffins again.” 

Matt smiles wryly. 

“Come on, Matt. You can fight the bad guys tomorrow. It's New Year's Eve,” Foggy says. “We should get drunk, have some fun, toast to the miracle that we're still around and—guess what—able to afford our very own strawberry rhubarb.” 

The words are enough to bring a small but genuine smile to his lips, and wow, yeah, Foggy’s missed it. But it quickly morphs into a grimace with an edge to it that means he's very much in need of a punching bag. More so than usual. 

“The bad guys don't care if it's New Year’s Eve, Foggy,” Matt says. “Besides. You know that crime rates spike on holidays.” 

The bad guys don't care, but Matt obviously does. Foggy wonders how much shit Matt is trying (and failing) to block out right now.

Foggy’s kinda glad that Matt can't see all the worry in his expression, because that'd make him feel all guilty again. But he realizes Matt can probably sense it somehow anyway. 

Then again, maybe not. Matt looks like just standing here is strenuous, and not (just) because talking with Foggy is difficult (it shouldn’t be, it feels so wrong). It’s New Year's Eve. Foggy remembers from the past that Matt’s never liked holidays like this. Now he knows why. 

Just the noise must be killing him—God, Foggy wonders how bad the fireworks must be. They’re going to start soon. It’s probably agonizing for Matt. 

“Yeah, Matt. I know,” Foggy says. “Sorry to break it to you, but if you go out there I'm pretty sure you'll end up being the punching bag.” 

“I'll manage,” Matt says with what he must think is a reassuring smile. It's really not. “I always do.”

Fireworks go off in the distance, a quiet boom to Foggy’s ears, but Matt visibly _flinches_. 

“Matt—”

"Why are you here?” Matt asks. 

“To check up on you.” 

Matt shakes his head. “I should go, Foggy. I need to go. Just—thank you for dropping by, you can go have fun now. I’m fine.”

“Well, I’m not. The noise is only going to get worse, and isn’t that going to interfere with your senses? Distract you from hitting whoever you’re hitting? You’re not going to be able to help, you’ll just get hurt.” And maybe die. Foggy really, really doesn’t want Matt to die. 

Matt stiffens. “I’ll manage,” he repeats. 

“That,” Foggy notes slowly, “was not a no.” He exhales. “You’re actually fine with being a punching bag, aren’t you,” he says blankly. “If it’ll help distract you. From the noise.” Among other things. It’s probably not just the noise Matt wants a distraction from, which, shit, really isn’t healthy. Foggy is not a very good friend. “Jesus. I think I prefer you being the hitter and not the hittee, Matt.” 

"I—” Matt doesn’t get to finish his sentence because three blasts of fireworks go off in a row, and they are loud, even to Foggy. Matt makes a pained noise and tosses the Daredevil cowl away. It makes a thump on the wall. Matt’s got his hands around his ears. 

Foggy doesn’t really register the movement, but he finds himself right by Matt, closer than they’ve been for much too long. He’s hugging him tightly, whispering his name softly. Matt digs his face into Foggy’s shoulder. Foggy can feel him trembling, can feel Matt’s rapid heartbeat, and he kind of wants to cry for Matt. This isn’t something Matt can punch away, this problem can’t be solved like that. This is _terrible._ Fuck this. 

The fireworks quiet down, but Foggy knows there’s probably more to come. New York doesn’t sleep on New Year’s. Matt shifts, maybe to pull away, but Foggy doesn’t let him, he holds on. He doesn’t want to let go. 

“I didn’t come here because I thought that it was a burden. That you were a burden,” Foggy whispers, running his fingers through Matt’s hair gently, comfortingly. “You’re _not._ You’re... you’re my best friend, I care about you. I’ll help you, if I can.” He really hopes he can. “I’ll always help you, whenever you need me. Let me help. Please?” 

Matt inhales deeply. “Foggy...”

“I need you too, you know. I’m not just here for you, it’s kinda for me too,” Foggy confesses. “I really miss you. It’s really different without you, and I—I don’t just mean New Year’s.” 

Matt makes a pained noise. “Foggy, I,” he says, stumbling on his words. “I’m sorry I haven’t really. Been there. I’m trying.”

“It’s okay, I get it,” Foggy says quickly. “I really do. I know you’re trying. I should too, right? Two-way street and all?” 

He’s just always worried that Matt will get lost, blinded by a light in the dark that he sees but Foggy can’t, and then soon enough Foggy can’t see _Matt_ , either. It’s scary to reach out and not know if Matt will be there.

It must terrify Matt, to not know if anyone will help him when he falls, if anyone will even know. If anyone will even care. 

Foggy squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “I used to think it was because you couldn’t see them.” 

“It's not just the noise,” Matt says. He says it like it's his fault he’s in pain, says it in a rushed way like he’s desperate for the chance to finally speak, to finally have someone who will listen. “I mean—it’s bad. It’s like, someone firing a bunch of guns inside my head. But it’s. It's also the smell, it’s overwhelming. It feels like I can’t—breathe. And... and the _silence,_ too, it—“ He chokes on the words. 

“Hey. Listen to my voice, okay? Listen to my heart. Focus on it.” He guides them to sit down. “It’s okay. We’re in your apartment, I’m with you. You’re safe. We’re okay. You can breathe. In, out. In, out.” 

They sit like that for awhile, Matt curled up, Foggy holding onto him, whispering comforting words. 

Eventually, Matt says hoarsely, “People argue a lot on holidays. They get drunk. They get dangerous. And I can’t help them.” There’s a pause. “But the silence is worse. People who lost those they loved, their rooms are quiet now. Lonely, when they used to be happy last year. Or there’s people who are losing each other but don’t know what to do or say, they just... sit there in silence and let the world burn. And it burns so _cold_. I can’t stop it, I never can.” 

“Oh, Matt,” Foggy whispers, blinking, eyes wet. 

"I miss you too,” Matt confesses. It is almost midnight. Outside, the celebrations are getting louder, but he presses on. “I miss you so much.” 

“I’m here. I’m not gonna leave, I promise you, okay? You can’t get rid of me that easily.” Foggy huffs so he doesn’t break down crying. They can save the crying for later. Right now, he’s got an idea. “I’ve got an idea.” 

Matt tilts his head slightly. “An idea?”

“Well, I was thinking, maybe I could describe the fireworks to you? What they look like. They’re pretty beautiful, you must’ve seen them before. Right?” 

“It’s been a long time, but I remember.” Matt frowns, chewing his lip. “Of course I've seen them before. We live in New York.” 

“Not clearly enough if you mistake them for gunshots,” Foggy says dryly. “You get shot at too often, I think it’s made you confused. Don’t worry. I think, if you get a better picture of them in your mind, you can think happy thoughts. It won’t be that bad anymore. Wanna try?” 

Matt nods. “Anything you want, Foggy,” he says, and probably means it completely. Foggy’s heart rate goes up for a whole other reason, but he pushes that thought away. 

“Good. Okay. Well, the view isn’t great here since you’ve got that billboard going for you, but I can kinda see the fireworks. They’re really pretty,” Foggy says, glancing over. 

“Mhm.” 

“Soft pinks and purples and blues shooting up in the sky, then they merge together before blooming into a really nice flower. The colors are really vivid. It’s like someone splashed a bucket of paint onto the sky, I guess that's what they call art these days. And there’s a string of red and golden ones, really warm and safe, but also, hopeful? It is New Year’s, after all. Ah. I’m not very good at firework-critique, am I?” 

“I like your voice,” Matt murmurs. “It’s very soothing.” 

“Oh. Thanks,” Foggy says. “I'm always happy to help.” 

“Thank you, Foggy.” 

Foggy grins and continues talking for a bit, not just about the fireworks but also about other happy things. It works, he thinks. Matt’s not shaking anymore and he doesn't look like he wants to charge into a ring so he can get knocked out anymore. 

Foggy can hear people starting the countdown. Just a few more seconds till next year. “Happy New Year, Matt,” he says, and this time, it feels right. 

Matt, however, doesn't say it back immediately. He waits a second or two and then leans in. 

Foggy’s mind goes blank. 

“Matt,” he gasps. 

“Happy New Year, Foggy,” he says tentatively. Hopeful. 

“Just checking—this is something you want, right? And not just because you think I want it? Because I want it. A lot. Which is embarrassing, yeah, but you really don't need to pay me back in kisses.” 

Matt answers by pulling Foggy in for another kiss, this time deeper and a little desperate, like kissing Foggy is the only way he can breathe. 

Foggy kisses back, very enthusiastically. 

They finally part because metaphorical breathing is great and all but they need to do literal breathing. 

“Okay. Yup. I'm convinced,” Foggy says. 

Matt looks really happy. Really really happy, and that makes Foggy happy too. “Happy thoughts,” he says, grinning, more brilliant than any fireworks Foggy’s ever seen. 

“Yeah,” Foggy agrees. “Happy thoughts.” 

They hold onto each other, and their touches don't burn cold, they burn hot with pleasure and happiness and warmth. They burn with hope, so long as they have each other. 

And they do.

  



End file.
